


I've Calloused My Hands Holding Onto Us

by thefairfleming



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus Fic, F/M, Missing Scene, but hey what can ya do?, clearly my brand, still can't believe I write RPF for people who've been dead for 500+ years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: Henry wonders how much of his wife he's actually getting.





	I've Calloused My Hands Holding Onto Us

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene drabble-ish thing based on a very specific head canon I came up with after 1x05.

There are times when he wonders if this is all he’ll ever have of her.

In the beginning, that had not bothered him overly much. The first time she cried out beneath him, her back arching, her fingers digging into his hips, shameless in her pleasure, he’d felt only triumph and satisfaction. _He_ had done this to her, _he_ had brought her to this place where she shook and gasped and there was nothing feigned in it, nothing dutiful. In that moment, she was his in a way she’d never been before, and Henry’s own release had left him panting against the damp, salty skin of her throat. If she was his then, he was hers as well, just as completely.

And for so many nights after that, it had been a wonder to him, the way his touch kindled a flame in her. The boldness of her, taking his hand, leading it where she most needed him. The words she breathed in his ear, the sharp nip of her teeth on his shoulder, his collarbone, his lower lip. He’d always known there was passion in her- he’d seen in that first day in her mother’s chambers when her gaze had all but skewered him. Then her eyes had blazed with hatred, but he’d still wanted her. So having her like that- willing, welcoming, wanting- had been enough. More than he’d ever dared hope for if he’s honest with himself.

It’s only later that he begins to realize that for all that warm willingness in his bed, there’s a part of her that stays closed off from him. Oh, she smiles at him with real affection, she touches his hand unprompted, she cares for him, of that he has no doubt.

But she is offering her body as a substitute for her heart, and the longer it goes on, the more Henry feels it’s not the fairest of trades.

That’s hard to remember now, though, when she’s looking at him, eyes bright with lust, cheeks pink. 

There were things he’d meant to discuss with her tonight, not least her mother’s return to the palace, the dowager queen’s illness, how having her here made Lizzie feel.

His wife had not wanted to talk.

Instead, she had kissed him and kissed him, her arms around his neck, her lithe body pressed to his, guiding him to her bed, and he’d lost his head as he always seemed to do with her. He’d known women before his wife, but none had ever made him feel like this.

_ You don’t want someone who burns to be with you _ ? she’d asked him once, and he thinks he better understand what she means now. Henry has never burned for anyone the way he does for her and, as he kisses her throat, moving down to the swell of her breasts above her nightdress, he has the satisfaction of knowing that, at the very least, she burns for him, too.

And if this is all he can have of her, then he means to reduce her to ash.

“What are you doing?” she whispers when he moves her nightdress out of the way to kiss the silken skin of her inner thigh. Her pupils are blown wide with desire, her golden hair a tousled mess around her face. He knows how soft that hair feels, knows the sweet, lemony scent of it in his nose in the mornings. The slight smile on her face, he knows that as well. It’s the look she wears when something has truly surprised- and pleased- her. 

“Do you not know?” he replies, unable to resist smiling back at her. Another pleasure, then, showing her something new, something she had never known before him.

The first taste of her is as heady as he’d expected, but her low cry is maybe even more intoxicating. “Henry,” she murmurs, voice low, and the tug of her fingers in his hair is a sharp sting against the slick softness of her under his mouth. 

The sounds she makes are unlike any he’s heard in their bed before. She’s quieter than he would’ve expected, only the smallest cries and whimpers coming from her lips, and when he glances up her body, her eyes are tightly closed, her face nearly scarlet. Her hips move in small, tight circles against his mouth, one hand clutching his hair, the other opening and closing on the sheets. 

Henry has done this before, but never has it felt as gratifying as it does now, making his wife- his _queen_ \- come to pieces beneath his lips, his tongue. He pushes her to one crisis, her thighs trembling against his hands, but it’s not enough. He wants all that she has to give, and so he sets his mouth to her again, sliding his fingers into her where she’s hot and wet for him.

He does not stop until she curls up, both of her hands wrapping around the back of his head, fingers digging in tight to his scalp as she ride out her release against him. 

When she sags back to the mattress, Henry moves to lie beside her, but she pulls him on top of her, legs opening, foot trailing up his calf, and he slides into her, hissing a breath between his teeth.

She kisses him even with the taste of her still on his lips, mixing with the salt of the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.

He thinks then to tell her that he loves her. She knows it, he’s sure. It’s there in the roses he leaves in her rooms every day, in his eyes when she smiles at him, in the simple fact that he would do anything- everything- in his power to make her happy.

But then she looks at him, her palm against his cheek, her body knitted to his as tightly as two people can ever be, and thinks again that perhaps this is enough.

Perhaps it has to be. 


End file.
